by Aderyn Wood
Uncle-General Mutat and Uncle-Administrator Thedor spoke at once, but the high priest’s voice rose above them. “It does seem odd, my king, that the goddess would push for war when her beloved peace is so readily attained through a simple marriage.”
“In any case, Father,” Heduanna added. “I have given the king my personal assurance that I will become his wife.”
“Daughter, you have acted accordingly. Any future amendments will not be attributed to you.”
“But—”
Father held up his hand again, his knot beads hung on his thumb and made a clacking noise. “And as for peace—” He looked at the high priest. “I am certain it will remain at the very centre of our goddess’s desires. I’ll remind you all, Phadite sees much further into the mystery of the future than any of us. As long as that is clear I wish for no further deliberation of this matter today. It is time to discuss our mission to the west.”
“You’re quite serious about sending a fleet?” Uncle-Admiral Dannu asked. Sargan thought he noted a hint of excitement in Dannu’s normally stoic expression.
“I am. And I wish for the expedition to be gone within the next quarter-moon.”
Once again a number of them spoke at once, voicing concern about the short notice, until Sargan’s father-king raised his hand. “Hadanash will lead the expedition.”
Sargan glanced at his brother and noted a change in his composure. His shoulders straightened, and his chin had lifted.
“You, brother-admiral,” the king turned to Dannu, “will naturally accompany him, as will you brother-general, and your son, my royal nephew Ilbrit and his contingent.”
Sargan had to resist grinning like an idiot. In one swoop his father had eliminated all his worries. Cousin Ilbrit was an utter thug who took pleasure in acts of idiocy at the expense of others, and Sargan frequently bore the brunt of his cruelty. Just a few nights past he found scorpions in his desk draw. But Ilbrit was a capable soldier, trained from a young age by his Father-general. He was made overseer of a band of soldiers at sixteen sommers, and he was now a captain of the sixth contingent.
Sargan worked hard to stall a wide grin. Would it mean sword practice would also come to a halt? Such an expedition would take a moon at least, perhaps two. Sargan pressed his lips together. He would allow himself to get excited later, right not he had to look as serious as everyone else. Yes, he could play the prince when it was needed. Qisht should be proud.
“Sargan, shall also join the mission,” the king said.
Sargan gasped. “Fath… I-I—”
His father ignored his stutters. “Brother-general and brother-commanders, ready the soldiers. We will need a sizable force. Phadite tells us these men will prove a formidable fighting force. However, they are uncivilised and lack the discipline of our soldiers. We can best them if it proves necessary. Brother-admiral…”
As his father gave out orders, Sargan tried desperately to still the swirling panic in his mind. The blood had drained from his head and limbs. His knees were weak. Why was his father torturing him so? Why, when in two short moons he would say his affirmations and enter the high temple? This voyage would delay his studies even further. But worse, how was he supposed to survive the torture from his brother, uncle-general and royal cousins in close confines on a boat? Without Qisht to help him, there’d be no way he could get through it. Then another realization took hold, he’d be forced to cross the Sea of Death and face its many horrors himself. He’d be a trembling mess. It was, in short, his worst nightmare come true.
“… Of course, brother-king,” Mutat said. He glanced at Sargan. “A wise decision to send your youngest son. It will be a perfect opportunity for him to broaden his horizons, and to learn more about military strategies and tactics.”
Sargan’s stomach roiled.
“I am more interested in his ability to serve as diplomat.” His father looked him in the eye. “I also wish for you to scribe all that you see and work with your uncle-admiral to sketch maps. You may need to think up a way to communicate with these people. Study the epics of Urghan and revise how it was done by the Erans and the Zyrrians when they first made contact with Tarzyshta.”
Sargan couldn’t trust his tongue to respond, though his mind screamed, but, the temple, Father!
“That is my instruction. Be ready to leave in eight days. We will meet again on the morrow to further discuss the mission. Right now, I wish my brothers to stay. The rest of you may take your leave.”
Sargan somehow managed to get to his feet. He turned to Qisht who shook his head as he stood, a look of sorrow in his eye.
“Qisht, please fetch King Thasus. He is waiting in my reception chamber, and return to us with him,” Father said.
Qisht shrugged at Sargan as he walked past.
Sargan let go a heavy breath, and followed the others out.
Sargan sat on the bench seat in the shade of a potted palm waiting for a moment to speak with his father. The king was busy with the hearings. Every few days after noon, King Amar-Sin heard the various land disputes and claims of unlawfulness from Azzurians who brought their grievances to meet the king’s justice. He administered judgements in accord with the codes. The king had spent his entire reign developing the codes to prescribe an exact punishment for every thinkable crime or wrongdoing – another factor that had contributed to Azzuri’s peace and stability. Criminals couldn’t get away with exploiting the weak in Azzuri. It was a very different city than in the time of Sargan’s grandfather’s rule. Back then, Azzuri was called the ‘Blue’ city for a very different reason.
Sargan knew the codes well. He’d scribed many of them, and his father regularly requested him to scribe during the hearings themselves. He’d even sat on the seat of rule himself, at times, to administer judgements according to the codes in his father’s absence. He knew the punishment for theft, a double payment of silver or gold equal to that of the goods’ worth, or payment with the thief’s life. He knew the punishment for murder – execution – and any number of other codes.
Sargan’s father hadn’t requested him to scribe today, so he waited on the lower terrace. Sargan stood and looked over the city again. The four bells to mark noon had gonged long ago, and the shadows of the buildings below stretched ever thinner. The day crept closer to post-noon and Sargan’s stomach growled, reminding him he’d missed lunch. Though he wouldn’t be able to eat a thing until he fixed this muddle. The worry of it made him sick; he’d vomited his breakfast as soon as he’d left his father’s office that morning. He’d not been able to write any poems, or read them. The thought of a stroll through the city to see the old men in the bazaar to play a game of cenat, or to enjoy a cup of rose tea at Kalban’s teahouse, or even to visit the high temple’s library brought no appeal whatsoever.
He shifted his gaze to the river and the royal fleet that floated unthreateningly. Sargan enjoyed travel, though the boating made him sick. Under any other circumstance he’d embrace the opportunity to see a strange new world with his own eyes, rather than reading about it in an epic poem. But not with his uncle-general and his tyrant son. Not with his brother-prince. And not with so much danger at play. No one had crossed the Sea of Death and lived to tell the tale. What made their father think they would?
Voices approached and a group of herders, chatting in gleeful tones left the reception hall and made their way to leave, clearly satisfied with whatever judgement Sargan’s father had administered. Sargan pursed his lips, he had to change his father’s mind.
Two palace guards approached from inside the Silver Room and took up their posts at the palace entrance.
“Have the hearings finished for today?” Sargan asked Namtur, his father’s longest serving guard.
“Yes, my prince.”
“Is my father-king alone?”
“Qisht is with him. He’s in his suite.”
Sargan nodded and taking a breath entered into the cool of the Silver Room. He walked through the Hall of Gold and to the passage tha
t took him to his father’s reception room.
Inside, Sargan blinked to adjust his eyes to the low light. A rose incense burned and brought a sense of calm to Sargan’s mind. At first he could see no one, then he spotted Qisht at his table scribing on a tablet.
“Qisht,” Sargan said. “Where is my father-king?”
Qisht looked up and gave him a knowing look. “You want to try and change his mind.”
Sargan frowned and stepped closer. “Don’t you think I should? I can’t go on this mission. They’ll treat me worse than a peasant.”
“You are a prince of Azzuri, Sargan, not a peasant.” Qisht took a long breath and put his stylus down. “You need to start understanding what that means.”
Sargan winced. Qisht’s words stung. “You know how they treat me. I’m not a warrior like they are. I—”
“Your father has made up his mind on this.”
Sargan blinked in an effort to stop his vision blurring. He shook his head. “No.”
Qisht’s expression softened and he place a hand on Sargan’s. “I tried to have him send me in your place, but he refused to listen.”
“No.”
“He is in his room resting. Why don’t you go in?”
Sargan swallowed. His room? It had been years since he’d visited his father’s private bedroom. Not since he was a boy of just four sommers, and then it had been a different room entirely, one shared with his mother-queen on the upper terrace. Sargan couldn’t even remember the last time he’d had a private audience with his father. He suddenly felt sick again, but there was nothing left in his stomach to throw up. He had to face his father. He had to at least try to make him see reason.
“Thank you, Qisht.”
The servant nodded. “Good luck.”
Sargan moved slowly, forcing every step. He walked through the wide passage that took him past his father’s office and snaked deeper into the centre of the palace. The air grew cooler, damper, darker. Finally he came to the entrance to his father’s most private space, the king’s bedroom.
“Father?” Sargan’s voice trembled and he cleared his throat.
A warm light emanated from the sconces lining the walls. A large canopied bed made of dark cedar wood cut from the Black Mountains filled a space by the far wall. Beside it stood two gold lion statues that reached almost to the ceiling, probably three or four times Sargan’s own height. The lions looked down on Sargan with opened maws that seems to move and snarl in the dancing light. His father reclined upon a settee lined with purple silk. A lantern burned bright on the table nearby. The king was reading a tablet but looked up when Sargan spoke, a look of mild surprise on his face quickly transitioned to one of understanding. “You’ve come to ask me to change my mind. You don’t want to go on the mission.” His father put the tablet on the settee. “Disappointing.”
A heaviness plunged in Sargan’s stomach like a fallen rock. “I’m sorry, Father. I just… I don’t understand why you want me to go. I’m no soldier. You know that.”
“I don’t need more soldiers. I need someone with knowledge. Knowledge of words and wisdom—”
“Why not Qisht? He is more than willing to go.”
His father clenched his jaw. “Qisht has no knowledge of desert speech.”
Sargan frowned. “Desert speech? Why would that help?”
“You understand more than one language, it may be you will understand something of their language. We need to communicate with them.”
“But, Father, what about the temple? I’m supposed to enter in two moon’s time.”
“The temple can wait, Sargan.” His father was frowning now. “I have need of you.”
“But, they—”
“That will be all. Now leave me. I need my rest.”
Sargan’s eyes filled with tears, and his throat constricted, but he managed a squeaky, “Yes, Father.” Before turning and running from the room.
Sargan sat in Kalban’s teahouse with a miserable look on his face he refused to wipe away. A cup of cardamon tea was going cold on the table in front of him. Kalban had brought Sargan and his guest a platter of roasted almonds sweetened with honey, one of Sargan’s favourites, but they remained untouched.
Zamug sat opposite him. “I know you’re anxious, Sargan, but I am glad your father has the wisdom to send you on this expedition.”
Sargan wiped his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I do not share your gladness. I don’t understand his decision. Yes, I speak your tongue, Zamug, and yes I’m a good scribe. But Qisht is just as capable, why not send him?” Sargan frowned. “Perhaps Father wishes to torment me too. Why not? It suits his eldest son and brother-general to do so.” He paused to turn an almond in his hand. “And does it not seem too dangerous for the likes of me? What if these mysterious people of the west rise up and execute us? Azzuri will lose two princes in one swoop.”
Zamug smiled. “Your father has his reasons, and Phadite wouldn’t allow the loss of two of Azzuri’s sons. As for Qisht, your father needs him here. It is important he keeps him close.”
Sargan shook his head.
“Sargan, what have you learned from all those epics you read? There’s more to them than lofty stories of love and heroes. There are more subtle lessons to be learned, political lessons.” Zamug leaned closer. “As for the general and your brother, yes you will face their barbarous natures, but you are twice the man either of them ever will be. They are men of the military through and through, they must act and think a certain way if they’re to come to terms with their actions. You will see that one day, and it will help you to understand them.”
“I don’t want to understand them.”
“Understanding one’s enemies is the surest way to find peace with them, and peace for yourself.”
Sargan slouched. Usually he enjoyed Zamug’s dictums on wisdom, but now they only irritated him and unsettled him further. Still, he respected Zamug more than any other, even Grand Blessed Lipit. “I will try. But they won’t make it easy. Especially my fool cousin Ilbrit.”
“The more difficult a lesson, the more worthy.” Zamug’s smile faded. “You must ensure there is peace – that the westerners do not come to harm.”
“How am I to ensure such a thing? Hadanash won’t listen to anything I have to say.”
“You will find away, my friend. You must find a way.”
Sargan studied the old desert seer. His brown, wizened face was friendly as always, but worry was etched in the lines on his brow. There was something he knew. Something he wasn’t telling.
Sargan opened his mouth to ask, but Zamug spoke first. “The time has come for me to lead my people back to the desert. I promise the next time we meet there’ll be more opportunity to share with you the dawn tales of the Cassites you enjoy so much.” Zamug stood.
Sargan rose to embrace the old man.
“You are nearly a man, Sargan.” Zamug looked at him one final time. “Soon your kishmat will begin to demand much more of you. You must be prepared.” He put a hand on Sargan’s shoulder. “Good bye, my friend.”
Sargan watched him walk out of the teahouse with his staff at hand. An urge to run after the seer and join his people in their trek through the desert gripped him. It would be wonderful to experience their stories firsthand. But he pushed the desire back, recognising it for what it was – nothing but a childhood fancy. He was a prince, and nearly a man, it was time to start acting the part.
Sargan placed his feet on the wooden planks of the dock in the same place he’d stood eight days prior to see off the enemy king. Little waves splashed up to wet his feet with welcome coolness.
He hugged his sister first. Tears filled her eyes. “Don't let those jackals get to you, little brother. I will ask Phadite to look over you.”
“Thank you, sister. That would be a comfort. I’ll miss you.”
She smiled, sadly. “I expect some fine poetry on your return.”
Sargan nodded. “I’ll do that for you.”
He ste
pped over to Qisht next, who put a hand on his shoulder. He too had tears brimming and they smudged his perfect kohl. “Stay safe, Sargan. I’ve arranged for a good stack of tablets on board. Keep scribing your poetry. And remember our lessons on map sketching. We will have much to discuss when you return.”
“Of course, thank you, Qisht.”
Sargan moved to his father who looked down at him with a neutral gaze. “Goodbye, Father. I will try my best to undertake the challenges to come. Thank you for the sword, though I hope we won’t have to rely on my using it.” Sargan touched the hilt of the sword – a fine gift from his father. Sargan wore it strapped in its belt, like his brother and all the other soldiers who boarded the ship. It felt foreign and heavy, and Sargan couldn’t wait to take the thing off.
“Of all my children, Sargan, I have most faith in you.”
Sargan’s eyes widened, but he nodded and turned, feeling equal parts delighted and bewildered by his father’s words. Why would he have faith in me? Faith that I will turn my back and run at the first sword thrust my way?
Sargan walked up the ramp and onto his father’s galley.
There were eight galleys in total, and four contingents of soldiers on board. Sargan should feel safety in those numbers.
In a few moments, the ropes had been coiled and oars plunged into the river. Azzuri moved past them. Sargan watched the palace, the temple, the bazaar, his entire world grow further away. He moved to the stern and watched until the great city was nothing more than a spot in the desert, and then the spot also faded. That’s when the tears came. They brimmed and broke over his lids as a high tide, flowing like rivers down his cheeks to splatter on the deck.
“Best to halt those tears, Prince Hog.” Sargan turned with a start to see the two thick eyebrows form a scowl on his uncle-general’s face. “If the enemy catches such weakness they’ll think us nothing but a bunch of mewling hoglets. Your time to be a man starts now, soldier.”
Sargan took a shuddering breath and wiped his eyes. This would be a long journey indeed.
